Unlikely Savior
by Seamless.Wings
Summary: Truth be told, I never dwelled over having to kill, but who does? The reality of it all doesn't kick in until there's a smoking gun in your hand, and they're on the ground, and you realize you're you.
1. Prologue

Prologue:

"Cloudy Skies  
Crying eyes  
The moaning cries  
The shuffling feet  
The whispers of quiet  
The holding of breath  
The silent praying  
The hand squeezing  
The muffled sounds of terror  
The smell of death and rotten flesh  
That possible last breath  
The flashes of life before this walking terror  
The memories of what used to be  
The echoing of silence  
That sense of never being safe  
The possibility of life never being the same.  
It must be the End . . ."  
-S.W

* * *

 **Hi...**

 **This is my poem.**

 **I'm new at this whole writing thing.**

 **The updates might be slow because I go to high school and I also have a part time job, but I'll try my best to update and make it an interesting story.**


	2. Chapter 1: I'm Not Little, Old Man

**~I do not own the Walking Dead~**

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You can't kill things that aren't living. At least that's what I thought before the outbreak. Truth be told, I never dwelled over having to kill, but who does? The reality of it all doesn't kick in until there's a smoking gun in your hand, and they're on the ground, and you realize you're you. Only then can you understand why criminals do what they do.

But I'm not them.

When someone dies and their cycle is complete, it is over for them. That was the logical standpoint, at least. I mean, I was positive that they were not supposed to wake up after dying and then consume what is left of us. I was.

I also never thought that I would actually see the walking dead, let alone witness a pack of them slaughtering my family like wild dogs with their bare hands and rotted teeth. I guess that's what I get for thinking.

So for those of us that dwell on our miserable lives, thinking that nothing could get worse, that we've have finally hit rock bottom - we were wrong, terribly wrong. I guess the only good thing that has come out of the dead waking up is no longer having to put up with the deranged people that called themselves my family. They were never my family and they were never going to be, no matter what the stupid government said. You'd think that the backbone of the country would be more careful with who they let take care of a homeless child who has a dead mother and a father she doesn't know, you'd think, but that merely turned out to be the fictional part of the story of my life that I now write with a tired hand. I just hope my pen won't run out of ink soon.

I've been trying to find my father since I turned 15, but here I am: two years later and all I've learned is that he lives in the same state. Most likely, I would have had more luck locating him if my "parents" weren't so against it, but now that the world has gone to hell, my chances of ever finding him have evaporated quickly into the humid Georgia weather.

So now three weeks later, I'm alone and making my way through a dilapidated neighborhood at least six towns over from my so called old home. All I have is a .9 mm pistol and a hunting knife that was kept in the lock box at the top of my foster parent's bedroom closet. I also managed to grab a duffle bag that I hastily filled with the only box of ammo, granola bars, bottled water, and a couple change of clothes; but most importantly, a picture of my mom and I together that has it's own separate place from the other survival gear in my duffel. It was the only thing they allowed me to keep besides the locket my momma had given to me a week before she died. I never take it off.

She never said much about my dad, besides how he was a good man and that she didn't regret meeting him. Mom never told him about me, and all she would say to me about it was that he had a full plate already and she didn't want him to worry about us . . . that he needed to take care of himself before he should even think about a young, college student and his infant daughter. He was older than my mother by eight years, and they met when she was on a camping trip with her two friends. Their car had ran out of gas, and all of them had stupidly decided to leave their phones back at the dorms so they wouldn't be disturbed.

She said they had sat in the beading sun for two hours before anyone stopped to help. It was my dad, his brother, and one of their friends. They towed their vehicle back to their house and she waited with him while the two girls and guys ran to get gas, and to check into a motel since they couldn't set up camp due to the approaching night.

My dad had barely talked to her throughout the encounter, but gas was fetched and the car was usable again, regardless. At about midnight there was a knock on her motel room door and when she opened it, there he was holding her hoodie she had forgotten in his pickup. Apparently, that was the night I was conceived, but obviously, my mother had made the story appropriate for my age. It wasn't until a week later after that night did she find the locket and note in her hoodie pocket.

I pick up on disgruntled noises from around the corner, assumingly the undead, and I quickly dart into an old grocery store. I rose my hunting knife into position as I went and cringed at the sound of the jingle of the doorbell upon opening, not believing I was so careless as to forget about my surroundings. I could be trapped by a bunch of living dead freaks in an enclosed area now.

Cautiously, I make my way through the ransacked store to see if I can find anything useful while I wait out the possible herd. Herds are large groups of the moving dead who roam around looking for a possible living snack.

I end up finding a first aid kit under the shelves and I quickly slip it into my duffle bag along with a lone can of baked beans. I was about to head to the front of the store to see if it was clear from freaks, when I heard muffled voices and then the jingling of the rusty doorbell. I wasn't able to see who it was before I quickly slumped down behind the shelf, hitting my forehead on the corner as I went. Luckily, the two of them - I can tell that they are men by their voices - seemed to be caught up in their argument and didn't notice the noise my forehead made as it came in contact with the sharp corner of the shelf.

I held my breath as I stayed crouched over in my position, listening to the two men argue, praying that they will not find me. My forehead stings through its own silent screams and I can feel the blood dripping down my face from the wound, yet I do not move to wipe it away, fearing being heard by the other two. It felt like hours had dragged by before I heard the doorbell and the thuds of footsteps disappear. I waited a few more minutes in my position before figuring it was clear to come out of hiding.

I was wrong.

When I climb to my feet, I spot a man with dark hair, who appears to be in his mid forties, pointing a crossbow right at me. Quickly, I grab the gun out of the waistband of my jeans and point it at him, clicking the safety off within the movement. By the look on his face; though, I can tell he wasn't expecting a bleeding, seventeen-year-old girl to do such an action. We both stand our ground with our weapons pointing at each other, no one utters a single word.

Finally, the silence is broken through rough words, "Who the hell're you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," I reply, fingers readjusting their position on the gun so my aim doesn't sway.

"Don't you get smart with me, girl," He snarls, tightening his grip on the weapon in his hands. "Now, I asked you a question - "

"You did?" I scoff. "Sorry, but with that damned crossbow in my face, I find it a little hard to concentrate on what's coming out of your mouth." I announce, grinning at the easily annoyed man.

"Well, I can hear what your sayin' just fine, and you got a pistol pointed right at my head, little girl."

"Fine," I huff. "I'll put the gun down if you put the crossbow down." I don't mean one word of it, but the man doesn't know that, of course he doesn't. How could he? Everyone is unpredictable these days.

Even me.

He grumbles: "You think you're smarter than me, huh?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." I tell him. "But you sure as hell don't look like the kind of man that agrees with others."

He smirks, I glare at him, and about that time I hear a crunch of broken glass from behind me. Before I can turn around; though, someone reaches out and grabs at my hand, the one holding the gun, and clicks the safety on, all the while twisting my wrist. All of this causes me to drop both my weapon and my pride as the new man kicks it to the crossbow wielding man.

* * *

I find myself sitting in the corner of the grocery store with a cloth pressed to my bleeding forehead, two rednecks glaring at me. I refuse to answer their prying questions and by the look of these two, they definitely do not take kindly to not getting their way.

"How 'bout you answer the damn questions, little girl," grunted the man that disarmed me.  
I could tell he didn't like me one bit, but I guess if I was him than I would not like the girl that shoved her elbow into his gut either, then proceeding in giving him a black eye by punching him in the face.

I proudly admire my handiwork while ignoring the bruised man that is trying to burn me with his scorching looks.

"Can't you tell, Merle," the one with the crossbow gumbles, "the damn kid ain't gonna answer your pansy ass."

"You shut your yap baby brother before I shut it for you - "

Their bickering continued on, but they finally shut up when I begin chuckling, wincing at the pain in my head.

"What the hell're you laughin' at?" jabs my bruised victim: Merle.

So I bite back, "You two are pathetic, arguing like a bunch of high school girls with nothing better to do."

"How 'bout you shut it," Merle says.

"How about you make me?"

Merle goes to come towards me before the guy - I'm assuming it is his brother by now - stops him by grabbing his shoulder.

"C'mon, man, she's just a kid." He informs his older brother. "Doesn't know what's coming out of her mouth half the time . . ."

But I do know, oh yes, I know. However, I keep quiet about that part for the sake of whatever peace is left and instead say:

"I'm not little, old man."

"Just tell me your name."

"You first."

"Daryl Dixon." he impatiently mutters.

Deciding not to push my luck any farther, I hastily conform into telling him my name.

"Nora Parker."

 **Well. Here's the first chapter.**


End file.
